Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Hurt/sort of comfort, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, all the things she said

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-22 Completed: 2026-03-23 Words: 11,992 Chapters: 4/4

The Name

Summary

After Shane suddenly leaves, Ilya struggles to make sense of what happened which forces him to face some questions about what he wants from his life. Set between the Tuna Meltdown and The All-Stars game in Tampa Bay.

Chapter 1: October

Chapter Summary

In the aftermath of Shane leaving, Ilya finds himself beginning to spiral as he tries to make sense of the sudden loss.

Chapter Notes

My beloved DietMoonFairy said she wanted a story about what Ilya was thinking and going through during the timeframe after the ill-fated Tuna Melt scene, especially when Shane and Rose were together, so obviously I had to go write it.

October

Ilya wasn’t sure how long he sat on the sofa after Shane left. At some point he had wandered outside to smoke, watching the whisps curl up, dissipating in the moonlight as if they were never there to begin with. Only the lingering taste on his tongue made it real and even that he knew would fade.

Eventually he realized he should go to bed, maybe sleep would also erase this strange, buzzing numbness, or at least tip him over into the oblivion he was craving. Sleep didn’t come though and after tossing and turning, he realized it was the smell of Shane on his sheets driving him mad. With a franticness he didn’t care to examine, he got up and jerked them off the bed more forcefully than necessary. Several minutes after tossing them into the wash, he was suddenly overcome with the urge to pull them back out. What if he never got to smell Shane again? By then it was too late, the washer had filled with water and detergent, a soupy blend of mistakes and regret and the attempt to scrub them away. 

He watched it churn until it was finished, the last dregs of water drained away, and he moved it to the dryer, realizing he too felt wrung out and heavy. He really did need to sleep. 

The sofa was out of the question, the echoed whisper of names better left unspoken haunted this room now. So he slept in the guest room for the first time since moving in, feeling like a stranger in his own home and in his own skin. 

–

They each faced off but not against each other the next day. In fact, at no point were they on the ice at the same time and the frustration of it made Ilya want to scream. Instead he settled for clenching his jaw so hard he worried he would chip the enamel off of a tooth repaired years ago. 

At one point the screen above the rink showed a closeup of Shane's face for a brief moment and Ilya couldn't help but wonder if those shadows under his eyes were being cast by his visor. Did he not sleep well either? Ilya was torn between guilt and vindication at the thought. 

Maybe it was for the best that they were never on the ice at the same time. Ilya wasn't sure he could have resisted grabbing Shane and yelling “Why?” Was it the name? The stupid, stupid name, he didn't even mean to say? 

I'll never call you that again. He thought. I'll only ever call you Hollander if that's what you want, just look at me please. 

But Sha- Hollander stubbornly refused to look his way, carefully avoiding even turning his head towards the Boston bench. 

Why was it even a big deal? I’ve literally been inside you! He wanted to yell across the plastic barrier between them. That would surely get Hollander’s attention. Why does it even matter that I called you by your name for once? It’s just a name! It’s not a big deal! He could have shouted. But secretly he knew it was actually a big deal, if only because he still couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down his spine at the memory of his own name being whispered back, beautifully mispronounced on English speaking lips. It scared him a little how much he wanted to hear it again. 

Fuck.

Boston won, barely. Ilya was told off by his coach for his sloppy playing and Marleau waited until Coach was out of earshot to clap him on the shoulder and tell him not to worry about it. Ilya nodded silently, because he wasn’t worried about it. He was worried about so many other things.

As soon as the attention was off of him, he pulled up his phone, hoping for a text, somehow unsurprised there wasn’t one. What had he even expected Hollander to say? “Sorry I freaked out, let’s fuck again soon”? 

He needed to get a grip.

–

A week later he still hadn’t heard from Hollander, and that was normal. It was totally normal for them to not talk for long periods sometimes, especially when they were busy with grueling schedules, or the playoffs, or summer months meant they had less to talk about as they never discussed anything but hockey and sex. 

Okay, yes, that hadn’t been the case lately. The last few months they hadn’t gone more than a day or two without texting, and the conversations had skirted dangerously close to something else. Little things, like Ilya saying he was sorry he couldn’t send a dick pic right this moment because he was at a dinner with his family. Like Hollander saying he wouldn’t want one right now because he was about to shoot an underwear commercial. The glimpses of each other’s lives, like peeking through a door that wasn’t quite closed all the way, had become intoxicating. Ilya had found himself checking his phone more and more often, trying to find a way to push that door just a little more open. 

It was becoming obsessive. He only realized that now, with startling clarity, as he was checking his phone hopefully and being immediately let down by the lack of texts. The let down was painful, but in a way he was glad for it, grateful that it had shown him just how stupid he had been acting lately anyway. When had Ilya Rozanov, hockey player extraordinaire and renowned lover, started keeping glued to his phone like a sullen teenager?

What if Hollander was waiting for him to text first though? Ilya used to always be the one to strike up a conversation, never the other way around. Was Hollander checking his phone every few minutes, looking for a flirty text from him? Should he send one? 

Somehow that felt wrong though. Ilya had messed up somewhere along the lines already and he didn’t want to mess up more, although at this point he wasn’t sure how he could. Maybe Hollander just needed space, maybe Ilya had gotten too needy that day. 

It might not have been the name after all. Even before that, Hollander seemed reluctant when Ilya asked him to stay the night, that definitely seemed to have crossed a line. Plus he knew something was going on with Ilya’s dad after the phone call and when Ilya had pulled him close just to have someone to hold on to, Hollander had changed the moment to something sexual. Not that Ilya was complaining, he appreciated the shift as it had taken his mind off things for a bit, but what if that was Hollander’s way of saying he didn’t want to deal with the vulnerable side of things? 

Ilya could be less needy then. He would stop texting him, that way Hollander would know he could give him space if that was what Hollander wanted.

–

The day after another terrible game, Coach took him aside at breakfast and asked how things were with his father. 

Ilya hadn’t even wanted to tell him anything about it to begin with, had only done so because there had been a scare a few months back when his father had taken a bad fall and Ilya thought he was going to have to leave for Russia to deal with things back home. It had all worked out and Ilya hadn’t needed to go after all, but still now Coach knew at least about his father’s dementia and that his health was worsening. 

So there he was, staring at a plate of scrambled eggs he could no longer imagine wanting to eat, nodding silently as Coach recounted how hard it was losing his own father to cancer. That’s not the problem. He wanted to tell him, but that wasn’t not the problem either. Every buzz of his phone had him feeling nauseous these days, that either it would be Hollander telling him he never wanted to speak to him again, or it would be The News. 

When Coach left, with a gentle pat on the shoulder, Ilya was embarrassed by how much he wanted to lean into the touch, although of course he didn’t. God it had been nice, having Hollander’s head on his shoulder, being able to kiss his soft, sleep-rumpled hair, and feel the warm weight of him against his side. 

The eggs had gone cold and congealed into something no longer edible so Ilya threw them out and returned to his hotel room. They had a flight to catch soon and normally he would be knocking on doors, reminding everyone to get their shit together and respectfully kick out whoever they had hooked up with the night before.

He couldn’t summon the energy for that right now though, so he thought he would just lie down for a few minutes and was deeply confused when he was woken by Connors, leaning over him with a concerned look on his face. 

“Are you getting sick?” His usual roommate asked as Ilya hastily shoved the miscellaneous clothes he had left strewn around into his bag. 

“Take those vitamin c gummies you love so much, you’ll be fine.” Ilya snapped. Connors always got nervous about catching a bug while they were on the road. 

“That’s not- ”

He didn’t catch the rest of whatever Connors was going to say as he fled the room, telling himself it was because they couldn’t miss their flight and not because he couldn’t bear any more sympathy today. 

–

It took a lot of effort, but he stopped checking his phone finally. In fact, he began leaving it in an entirely different room for hours at a time and stopped taking it with him when he went to the gym or for a run. It felt strange at first, not having the weight of it in his pocket, or the sight of it in front of him on the treadmill, but he got used to it. He always was good at adapting to new situations anyway. If he could adjust to the culture shock of moving across an ocean at seventeen, he could handle getting used to not having a cell phone on him 24/7. 

That’s what he told himself anyway.

It helped, a bit. His playing wasn’t as sloppy at least. 

He was a little bit proud of himself actually. It was a dumb thing to be proud of, he knew, but still. It made him wish he could tell someone but his coach was convinced he was stressing out about his father, and Connors was convinced he was recovering from the flu. 

Marleau came close to guessing the truth at one point, noting quietly that he hadn’t been staring at his phone before games lately as a sort of soft launch for the real question that hit him like a puck to the knee: Had he had a bad breakup?

No, of course not. You can’t break up with someone you weren’t with. 

Obviously Ilya couldn’t explain any of that, so he told Marleau “yeah, with your mom”. It got a laugh and a “fuck off, Rozy”, and more importantly it got Marleau to stop asking questions he didn’t know how to answer. 

–

“Ilushaaaa!” 

Ilya braced himself for the arms thrown around his neck. For such a slight woman, Svetlana was surprisingly forceful when alcohol lowered her self control. He grunted slightly at the feeling of her heels hitting his back. 

“The sun isn't even coming up yet," He joked, knowing she'd had a big night out planned. "What happened? Did you turn into a pumpkin?”

“No.” She mumbled into his shoulder. “He did.”

Ilya frowned, tightening his arms around her. “What do you mean? Did he hurt you?” His arms were already tensing, ready for a fight. No one had given him any excuse to throw punches on the ice lately and it was making him antsy. 

“Nooo.” Svetlana sighed. “Opposite.”

“Opposite?” Ilya pulled back to study her face, confused. 

“He proposed!” Sveta exclaimed, tossing her shoes and purse aside to go collapse on the sofa. 

“Proposed… as in marriage?” 

She snorted. “No a threesome- he’s waiting outside, what do you think? Yes of course, I mean marriage.”

Ilya went to the kitchen to fill a glass with water, calling over his shoulder. “So where is he now?” 

“Probably at home drowning his sorrows. Thanks babe.” She gratefully took the water.  

“So what, was the ring too ugly?”  

“Hideous. Like a diamond the size of your head.” Svetlana scrunched her nose. “Surrounded by citrine. I mean who puts that in an engagement ring? But that wasn’t even the problem really.”

“What was the problem?” Ilya had a game the next day but he hadn’t seen Svetlana in weeks and it felt so good to talk to her again finally. He didn’t care if it meant missing some sleep, staying up with her. 

“He had an entire string quartet, Ilusha. And a literal carpet of rose petals. I swear to god, I nearly jumped off the boat and swam back when I saw it.” 

Ilya nodded understandingly. “And you want only one cellist when I propose, is that it?”

Svetlana nearly choked on the water. “Absolutely not. The problem isn’t the way he went about it, although it was all garish as fuck. It’s that I never said anything about wanting to get married to begin with! Because I don’t want that! I want to keep having fun, Jesus.”

“Ah.”

“I mean what am I supposed to do with a husband?” Svetlana glared into the room. “Cook and do his laundry for him and shit?”

The memory of throwing together lunch for himself and Hollander suddenly came back and Ilya swallowed hard. “Yeah. Fuck that.”

Svetlana snuggled up against his shoulder. “See, that’s why I came to you. I knew you’d get it.”

Did he get it? Ilya had never walked past a jeweler’s and thought to stop and eye the diamond rings on display, or imagined hiring a string quartet to play on a private yacht for someone, that much was true. He had never given a lot of thought to marriage in anything more than an abstract sense. The idea of a big white wedding meant nothing to him one way or the other.

But then, marriage wasn’t a wedding. Nor was it a proposal. He knew that intellectually, but had not actually stopped and thought about it before. Svetlana’s words about cooking and doing laundry kept rolling around his brain, and he couldn’t quite push them aside because every time he let his thoughts drift near them, he imagined making dinner for Hollander, folding clothes with Hollander, working out whose socks were whose, and throwing them at one another, the way Hollander had thrown his underwear at him that night in Vegas…

“You’re awfully quiet tonight.” Svetlana poked his belly button. 

“Sorry.” He shook away the mental images and kissed the top of her head. “Just tired.”

“Mm. Me too.” 

“Breaking hearts is a lot of work, yes?” 

“Like you don’t do that everywhere you go.” Svetlana scoffed. 

“I do it before the musicians come out.” 

“Shut up.”

Ilya fell silent, running his hand over her back, appreciating the silky skin bared by her dress. He hadn’t hooked up with anyone in a few days, he realized, and then realized he hadn’t even noticed the small drought until now. “Will you miss him?”

Svetlana sighed, tickling his chest a bit with her breath. “Probably. He was sweet, and that’s nice to have as a regular guy. But I’ll find someone else.”

“You always do.” Ilya agreed.

“Can we go to bed?”

“To fuck or to sleep?” Ilya smiled, burying his face in her curls. “I’m up for either but it would be good to know which you want.”

“Sleep for now.” Svetlana patted his thigh. “Maybe fuck later, I’ll keep you posted.”

They stumbled to the bedroom and before he could even offer, she was rummaging through his dresser, pulling out a t-shirt. 

“Not that one.” Ilya said sharply, then mentally kicked himself as she gave him an odd look.

“What, is this cheap, plain black tee now your favorite?” She raised an eyebrow and him and then the shirt. 

“It’s my jerking off shirt.” He answered, hoping it was quick enough to sound like a convincing joke. 

“Gross Ilya.” She shoved it back into the drawer and pulled out a Raiders shirt instead. 

As hot as seeing her shimmy out of her dress was, Ilya had to admit there was always something so much more satisfying about seeing her in his clothes. Almost as satisfying as seeing Hollander in his clothes. He couldn’t place whether it was the knowledge that what was his was freely theirs as well, or if it was a possessive streak enjoying the little sign that this person was his. 

Though Hollander wasn’t his, was he? Never really had been. Maybe that was what he didn’t like, maybe Ilya should have handed Hollander his own jeans that day?

Without a word, they arranged themselves facing opposite directions, but Svetlana scooted herself to the middle of the bed so that her back was pressed against his. It was a comforting presence and he found himself drifting to sleep more easily than he had in weeks.

Only once he was almost gone, did she speak again suddenly.

“You know I would marry you, right?”

“What?” He asked blearily, wondering if he had misheard.

“Like not out of passion or whatever, but if you, I dunno lost all your money and needed support or something.”

“How would I do that?”

“Developing an online gambling addiction? Being swindled by a Nigerian prince? Getting really caught up in a pyramid scheme selling leggings? I don’t know, Ilusha, I’m just saying.” 

He laughed. “I will try not to fall for any email scams from ten years ago then.”

She nudged his butt with her own. “I’m trying to be nice, asshole.”

“Like you were nice earlier to… what was his name again? I lose track of all your almost-fiancés’ names.”

“Go fuck yourself.” 

He grinned. “What, now? Thought you said you wanted to sleep. Is that what helps you instead of counting sheep? The relaxing sounds of me-”

Svetlana rolled back to smack his arm. “Bastard.” She snuggled back into her place before adding, “Besides. It was nicer to end things with him than lead him on, don’t you think?” An uncharacteristic uncertainty crept into her voice.

“Yeah.” Ilya agreed; it wasn’t kind to lead someone on. 

Maybe it really was for the best Hollander left. Maybe he just didn’t want to lead Ilya on and let him think he wanted more.

Ilya pressed back against the warm back behind him and let that ground him, willing sleep to come.

Chapter 2: November

November

“Hey Roz, you gotta see this.”

Ilya wasn’t particularly interested in whatever Marleau and Conners were peering at on the phone, but it would be rude to tell them to fuck off and leave him alone. So he joined them, fully expecting some new meme or internet challenge he would inevitably get roped into doing with them later. 

The bored disinterest left him completely unprepared for the absolute gut punch that was seeing Hollander’s smiling face on Connor’s phone. For a moment, Ilya’s brain seemed to short circuit and he didn’t immediately register who else was in the photo or what his teammates were saying about it. 

The words slowly swam into focus, the letter slowly arranging themselves into something legible.

“Is Rose Landy Dating MLH Star Shane Hollander?”

It was a question, that was a question mark at the end. 

“No.” Ilya replied reflexively. Because that couldn’t be right. Of course they weren’t dating. 

“The two met at a mutual friend’s party.” Connors explained and Marleau swore at him but Ilya pulled the phone away, scrolling through the article looking for a date. 

When? He wanted to yell. When was this supposed party? Was this why Hollander ran away? Was this why he wouldn’t answer when Ilya asked him about girls? Ilya thought that Hollander  wasn’t interested in women at all, that was why he never heard about them. Had he had that wrong all this time and Hollander kept it “private”, as he had insisted, because he didn’t want to reveal his relationship with another celebrity?

There were more photos. It made him nauseous to keep scrolling, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. There was that shy, soft smile Hollander had when he was so pleased with himself, like when he made a joke he knew was funny and was waiting for Ilya to catch on. And all the while, beside him, there was a pretty redhead, giggling and grinning as well. 

Had Ilya just been a bit of fun on the side all this time? That shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, he was usually fine with being a bit of fun for someone. That was all he needed, all he wanted, so what did it matter? If that was what they both got out of it, that was fine. It was fine.

Eventually Connors took his phone back and Ilya numbly made his way back to the weight rack. 

Maybe it was recent. Did that make it better? Would it be better if Hollander had left his house, left Ilya a wreck, and then shortly after found himself someone he could laugh and hold hands with in public? 

Had Ilya given him the idea? 

He nearly dropped the weight, barely controlling it enough to put it back on the rack, using it as an excuse to remain bent double for a moment, hiding his face.

“You okay, man?” Connors called from the bike, breathless. 

“Headache.” Ilya grunted and escaped to the showers before anyone could ask him anything else.

–

All progress he had made with staying off his phone was wiped out. 

Ilya knew he should stop, but like picking at a scab, he couldn’t stop scrolling social media and tabloid articles, looking for more of Hollander and Rose Landry. Even if he wanted to stop, now he was getting suggested articles, video clips, everywhere. 

He didn’t know what was worse, the ache of seeing Hollander smile at someone else, or the comment section below, overflowing with approval for the relationship. Some people were predicting a fantastic season for Hollander, assuming that the happiness of his new romance would propel him to even greater heights. Others were talking about how lucky Rose was to be with him, or how lucky he was to be with Rose, depending on the direction of the commentor’s attraction. Still more talked about how beautiful their wedding would be, how talented and gorgeous their children would be. Predictions of a happy, fairytale-ending future flowed seemingly endlessly.

A future that Ilya would never be a part of. He and Hollander weren’t even friends, it hit him one day. There was no reason he would even be invited to the wedding. He would never meet Shane’s kids, never get to see if they inherited his adorable freckles or his funny little quirks. 

The realization left him staring blankly at a wall for the better part of an hour, without him even noticing how much time had passed. 

–

She was there, at the Detroit game. Wearing Hollander’s jersey. His colors and number. 

It was ugly, the jealousy that reared up in him, and Ilya was grateful he was watching the game alone tonight. God only knew what his face was doing, probably twisting up as much as his insides were. 

How stupid anyway, to be jealous of such a thing. He had his own jersey, his own number. It wasn’t as if he would ever have had a reason to wear Hollander’s. What, had he ever thought he would go to a game to support him just as a spectator? Show off his archrival’s number for the cameras with a cheeky grin? Obviously not. 

The crowd went wild as Rose smiled over her shoulder and the camera cut to Shane, looking up with a sweet grin of his own as he stretched.

Then she blew a kiss. The open gesture of affection elicited even more cheers of excitement from the fans, and a wave of nausea from Ilya.

He switched the tv off and immediately regretted it as Hollander’s soft, shy smile was replaced by his own reflection, features scrunched into a grimace that he only now realized was embarrassingly closer to tears than to anger. 

–

Marleau had a habit of watching celebrity gossip shows in the morning, which Ilya usually teased him about, reminding him that he wasn’t a famous enough player to be talked about on there, even when he was dating that one Olympic skier. Everyone tolerated it though, secretly a bit nosier than any of them wanted to admit, Ilya himself included. 

This morning, however, the topic turned of course to the latest golden couple.

“No confirmation yet from Rose Landry’s camp,” The presenter was saying. What the fuck did that mean? “No confirmation”? Did people think there was some chance they weren’t actually in a relationship? Was she wearing his jersey and blowing him kisses because they were just good buddies? 

What bullshit.

Ilya gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the workout, pumping his legs faster. 

“They are one hot couple.” The presenters agreed, smiles wide and mocking. 

Of course they were a hot couple. Everyone knew they looked good together. Perfect, golden, happy, beautiful. Everything anyone could ever want to see in a couple. Rose was exactly what people would want to see by Shane’s side: petite, wide-eyed, and sweet. An ideal compliment to his broad shoulders and serious focus. 

Did Shane ever hold her hand and fawn over how small her fingers were compared to his? Did her head tuck perfectly underneath his chin when they lay in bed together? Or did he ever miss stronger arms wrapped around him as he lay on a broader chest? 

Enough.

Ilya snatched up the remote and turned the tv off, ignoring Marleau’s cry of indignation. 

He was in such a hurry as he dismounted that he slammed his foot into the weighted supports at the bottom of the stationary bike, shouting in pain.

Marleau’s annoyance became laced with concern as he asked about the shout.

“Stubbed my toe.” Ilya huffed in embarrassment, quietly grateful for the excuse in case Marleau noticed his eyes being a little shinier than normal. 

Chapter 3: December

Chapter Summary

Ilya runs into Shane in a club in Montreal and has to face the fact that he isn't as over Shane as he wants to be.

Chapter Notes

December

Rose wasn’t in the crowd when they played against each other, but there was a general murmur in the audience and a sea of craning necks, checking the box seats for a glimpse of red hair. It was distracting people from the game itself.

Of course by people, Ilya irritatingly had to include himself. He had never had trouble focusing on a game before, and he once played while sick with the flu. Sure he’d wound up being given fluids in the hospital after, and been chewed out by more than one teammate, but they still won and in part because of the two goals he scored that game. 

This was different though. This wasn’t a fever, or an aching joint, or something physical he could ignore. This was in his head. 

In his head was never a good place to be in a hockey game. 

The team was not impressed by him and neither were the commentators he heard later. Everyone was wondering where the hell he was like he wasn’t standing directly in front of them. And why was all the blame for them losing on him anyway? It wasn’t as if he was the only person on the team, why couldn’t the rest of them show up and do their jobs for once?

Deep down he knew it was his fault for not inspiring them like he should be doing as captain. He used to throw parties, take them out on the town, make jokes in the locker room, things that helped the team bond and relax so that they were playing as a unit on the ice. It was beginning to occur to him that feeling so disconnected from his team himself was causing them to lose their connections to one another somehow. His gloom was beginning to infect his whole team, and the loss really was his fault. 

He hated the face in the mirror, hated seeing it stare back at him, wondering the same thing. How long could this go on before they took the C from his jersey? Or worse, kicked him off the team altogether? Would he be able to sign with another team? Maybe Colorado would be desperate enough to take him. 

“Fuck this shit.” He swept out of the bathroom, leaving his self-pity behind in the mirror.

“I need to get laid. Let’s go out.” He announced to Connors.

Connors looked up from the room service menu, surprised. “Where?”

What kind of question was that? Did he think Ilya was suggesting they go skydiving? “We’re in Montreal. We find a fucking club.” He felt a little bad about snapping but Connors’ blank expression only fueled the fire. “Tell people!” He yelled.

Connors hastened to grab his phone, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m on it.”

Ilya jerked his bag open, realizing he had mostly just packed loungewear for the hotel and a suit for arriving at and leaving the arena as required. Was he going to have to settle for a t-shirt and jeans? Ah, wait. He had completely forgotten about the vintage Jean-Paul Gaultier shirt Svetlana had picked out with him a few months ago. It had been sitting at the bottom of his bag, waiting for a chance to go out for some time now. 

Marleau was the one to give the name of some club he had heard about to the driver, giving Ilya a chance to sit back and try to avoid his reflection in the windows.

Hollander had barely played tonight too, but Ilya couldn’t think about that. The Montreal team was not his problem or his responsibility. Still, where was that “career high” people had been predicting perfect Hollander would hit now that he was neatly matched up with his perfect fucking girlfriend? Was he tired from all the perfect sex they were having?

God Ilya really did need to get laid. He needed to lose himself in someone else’s body, breathe in someone else’s scent, swallow someone else’s cries of pleasure. The best way to get out of his mind always had been to focus on the physical. If hockey wasn’t doing it, surely sex would. He hoped it would anyway, because at this point he didn’t know what else to try.

The club was full of writhing, warm bodies, their shiny jewelry and shiny teeth gleaming as they caught the lights. Lots of beautiful women. Some beautiful men too, but they were obviously off limits tonight. Ilya had never picked up a man with his teammates around and never would.

They were a mess at the bar, shouting over one another, changing their minds, and generally causing a scene for the poor bartender, who to her credit, took it all in stride. Ilya made a point of apologetically slipping the woman a generous tip before ordering a drink for himself last. The focus of trying to get everyone settled had distracted him for a few minutes, and he was just beginning to relax, looking forward to his drink, when a face down the bar caught his eye. It was difficult to tell with the flashing, colored lights, but he was fairly certain he knew that face, had seen it in films, and more recently in a box seat at a hockey game, next to…

No. Surely not. 

The man smiled and saluted him, obviously recognizing Ilya too. 

No.

Despite the heat of the crowd, he went cold and numb instantly. He couldn’t even feel himself move, turning automatically to scan the room. 

Please don’t let him be here.

Please let him be here.

But if Hollander was here, he would not be alone. This was not the kind of place he would ever go on his own. 

And he wasn’t.

His plain white t-shirt stood out on the dancefloor, even bunched up as Rose lifted it to reveal his abs as she bounced in time with the upbeat music. Hollander was barely moving, a reluctant little awkward sway, but his smile was indulgent. He was at least enjoying watching Rose enjoy herself even if this wasn’t his scene personally.

The bartender slid Ilya his drink and he took a swig without taking his eyes off the pair on the dance floor. 

Should he leave? He could insist they find another club, or just slip out himself, find another bar or go back to the hotel and drink himself into oblivion there. 

No. He was here first, he thought irrationally, not even sure if that was true. Either way. He shouldn’t have to change what he was doing just to avoid stupid fucking Hollander and his stupid fucking girlfriend. He had come out here to get laid and he was going to do so dammit. 

Miles wasn’t the only one who recognized him tonight. He didn’t even have to approach the pretty blonde, she came to him and announced that she knew who he was. There was an immediate appeal to the assertion since Ilya didn’t feel like he knew who he was himself these days. If “Natalia” did, how nice for her. 

She noticed him eyeing the dance floor and gave him a pointed look that was more instruction than invitation. Fine, yes, they should get to the foreplay part of the night, Ilya figured. Forget the flirting, she knew what he wanted, he knew what she wanted, no need for the games.

For a few glorious moments, he was able to very nearly lose himself in the crush of sound and sensation, enjoying the slide of her hands down his chest, pulling away once they reached his waist, leaving him wanting more. He leaned in for a kiss, slipping in just enough tongue to tease, a promise to make the night worth her while. When he moved to suck lightly at her throat, she gasped and pressed closer, eventually turning in his arms to grind back against him. 

The trouble was, the movement had him opening his eyes and glancing past her, catching sight of a blinding white t-shirt, stock still in the middle of the dance floor. 

Hollander’s face fell as he also registered Ilya. 

The world slowed, seemed to submerge in the moment like water, making every movement labored, every image distorted by waves of emotions he could hardly name even as they washed over him.

The downturn of Hollander’s lips tugged him under and he longed to kiss it better before remembering that he couldn’t anymore. Hollander wasn’t his, never had been. He could call the stranger in his arms by her first name but not him.

Then the anger trickled in. How dare he be sad anyway? What did Hollander even have to be sad about? His team won tonight, he had a beautiful actress girlfriend, and Ilya had left him alone like wanted for the last several weeks. Hollander had no right to be upset now. Now Ilya wanted to wipe that expression off his face in an entirely different way. 

Holding eye contact with Hollander, he inched his hands upward, giving Natalia plenty of time to push them away if she didn’t want them on her breasts. Instead she reached back, arching against him, silent permission to touch her as he pleased. 

He took advantage to put on a bit of a show, swaying with Natalia, kissing her throat, her ear, her hair, all while watching Hollander intently, waiting for the moment that brow drew down into a glare, or the frown twisted into a snarl of anger or disgust. 

But it never happened. Hollander just stared, seeming frozen to the spot. 

Why wasn’t he moving dammit?

What the fuck was this? Did he get off on watching now? Did he expect Ilya to come to him? Other dancers even seemed to sense something off as they avoided him, not even jostling the untouched drink in his hand. 

Ilya didn’t realize he had stopped too in his confusion until Natalia spun back around and grabbed his face for another kiss. 

“Still with me?” she yelled over the music.

Ilya stared down at the plush lips with their mischievous smile, and found himself backing away before he even consciously decided to do so. 

By the time he looked up again Hollander was gone, like a spell had been broken. 

He had run away again.

–

Connors had a girl on his lap when Ilya left, and he knew that if it had gotten to that point, he wouldn’t see his roommate for a while still, if at all before sunrise. Which meant he had plenty of time to himself back at the hotel. 

Which was why he was stretched out on his bed, dick in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling through various ads Hollander had done over the years that he had saved in a hidden folder. The Calvin Klein underwear commercial gif had really done it for him a few times, but the one for some kind of orange soda where he was soaking wet worked well too depending on his mood.

Tonight though, neither was scratching that itch, and he gritted his teeth in frustration, trying to pin down what was missing. 

Something empty in Hollander’s eyes, he thought. While the ads were professional and he was feigning the engagement audiences would want to see, he knew the faintly detached look when he saw it. This was not the Hollander he knew, whose eyes would go wide and dark with want and who would sink to his knees, unprompted the second they were behind closed doors. 

Tossing the phone aside, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the image of the Hollander he knew instead, but the first picture that his mind conjured was cruelly the one of him stammering about a team meeting.

Fine. If his mind insisted upon reliving that day, he could go back to that day. But he was in charge here, this was his fantasy dammit. He could change the ending. He could have stood up, grabbed Shane and dragged him back to the bedroom. Hollander was strong but realistically, Ilya was a little bit stronger, not to mention more used to fighting. There wouldn’t be much Hollander could do about it even if he did struggle. If he really wanted to hold Hollander down and fuck him into the mattress, he could. 

Fuck.

He sat up, retching, though nothing came up, then buried his face in his hands with a dry sob. 

Ilya had always secretly feared he might be like his father. Was he? Deep down, was he actually a cruel, violent man? Would he really take what he wanted from others without concern for the consequences? If he wanted it badly enough?

It registered after a moment that he had gone completely soft even before gagging at the fantasy scenario and he tried to console himself with that realization. No, it wasn’t actually what he wanted. Neither his mind nor his body actually wanted to hurt Hollander when it came down to it; the idea made him physically ill.

He lowered his hands shakily and took a deep breath. 

This was not working. What did he actually want?

Hollander’s wide, panicked eyes returned to mind.

He wanted… not to see that. He closed his own eyes and lay back. 

Fuck it. As he had told himself earlier, this was his fantasy. He could make it what he wanted. If he couldn’t indulge in real life, he could in his own head at least. Just for tonight. 

He could imagine Hollander. No. Shane. He would call him Shane in his head if he wanted. He wanted Shane to have taken a breath, to have come back to sit down beside him and talk to him. 

Shane could have told him what was wrong, what was really bothering him, and Ilya could have gently pulled him into a hug, held him, let him breathe. He could have rubbed his back slowly until he felt the heart beating against him slow and the muscles beneath his hands relax, loosen.

His own shoulders dropped against the pillows just at the idea. 

Oh fuck he knew what he wanted.

He wanted to take Shane out for dinner and for the waiter to ask if they wanted their usual. When he walked away, Ilya would tease Shane about his silly diet and Shane would roll his eyes, but the chef would prepare his food exactly the way he wanted because he had done it dozens of times by now. 

He wanted to hold his hand when they left, walking around in broad daylight. He wanted to walk by a newsstand and see Shane scrunch up his nose, annoyed to see a photo of them in a gossip magazine, not because of fear that they had been outed, but because the paparazzi caught an unflattering photo of him mid-sneeze. Ilya wanted to joke that Shane was cute even when he sneezed, and he wanted to know that was true because he had heard him sneeze. 

God, was it too pathetic that he wanted to know how Shane sneezed? Fuck it, he promised himself he could indulge, and admit what he wanted, and that was part of it. He wanted to know everything, even the stupidly mundane.

He wanted to know what he did for Halloween, Christmas, New Years. He wanted to go to a New Year’s Eve party, stand outside and watch fireworks and kiss him at midnight in the middle of the crowd.

His hand crept down his chest of its own volition now and he let it. 

He wanted to taste champagne on his lips, just one glass as a treat for the night, and to see Shane’s flushed, barely buzzed grin when they parted. Then he wanted to take him home, waving goodbye to their friends and family as they left hand in hand, obviously on their way to bed but not to sleep.

He wanted to rest his hand on his thigh in the car, inching it up as Shane swatted at him playfully, reminding him that the driver was right there. He wanted to press him against the front door before they even opened it, where the driver, the neighbors, and God himself could see them being disgustingly cute. 

He wanted them to stumble inside, shedding clothes as they went, a shoe ending up beneath the sofa, a shirt on the kitchen counter, all tomorrow’s problem as their entire focus was only on one another and getting as close as they could be without crawling inside one another’s skin.

He wanted to lay Shane out on the bed and stare down at him, drinking in the way he looked drunk on more than alcohol. Then he wanted to duck his head down and kiss every single inch of his skin while Shane moaned and gasped, and occasionally laughed beneath him. He wanted to take his time opening him up, because Shane loved the attention and Ilya loved giving it to him, and he wanted to bury himself in Shane, face pressed against his throat where he could best hear and feel the sounds he always made at that first thrust. 

He wanted them to fall asleep in a tangled, sweaty mess, and to wake up pressed against one another just to do it all again with the sunlight streaming through the windows. Shane had been beautiful in the afternoon light that day in Boston. Ilya could imagine him, sleepy but sated as he collapsed into the bedsheets in the morning light, staring up at him with his half-lidded eyes, letting Ilya finish chasing his own end, actually releasing inside him instead of a condom this time…

He was so wrapped up in the fantasy that he nearly forgot to catch the cum in his hand this time, remembering only at the last second. 

Once cleaned up, clothed, and collapsed back into bed, post-nut clarity came crashing down on him.

He really did want all of that. He couldn’t have any of it, but he wanted it. And now that he had admitted that to himself, he didn’t think he could mentally turn back. 

The thing was, people wanted stuff they couldn’t have all the time. People fantasized about being with celebrities every day. Or winning the lottery and being rich. And it didn’t hurt anyone for them to want those things, so long as they kept in mind that it was just a fantasy and went on with their lives. 

He could do that. Maybe. He thought so anyway. He could let it be a fantasy, as long as he remembered it would never be anything but that. As long as he didn’t tell anyone. 

He pulled the blankets over him and curled up on his side, hands curled close to his chest as if holding on to the thought. This could be his. 

Just his.

Chapter End Notes

I know in the show we see Ilya in the shower but my assumption was that was something Shane was fantasizing about, not what Ilya was actually up to at that moment. That being said, I liked the idea that he couldn't bring himself to go home with anyone that night so wanted to use that in a different way. Hopefully this makes sense!

Chapter 4: January

Chapter Notes

January

Ilya had been not quite at peace, but at something like it, ever since that night in Montreal. 

New Year’s Eve had come and gone, and he had indulged himself again with his fantasy, building on it further to add details, some innocent like the color and shape of the fireworks they would watch and the way they would be reflected in Shane’s eyes, others less innocent like the way those dark eyes would look up at him while swallowing his cock later when they were alone. He’d let himself then fall asleep imagining going out for brunch the next day and holding both of Shane’s hands in his on the table between them to keep them warm.

He indulged again when his brother called to warn him that his father’s health was failing and that the doctors were not expecting him to make it to the end of the year. This time he let himself imagine hanging up the phone and turning to Shane to tell him the news. He imagined Shane holding him and soothing caresses eventually turning sensual. 

Afterward he wondered if he should feel ashamed of that particular fantasy but couldn’t bring himself to care. He realized he had been waiting for The Call for far too long now and somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that while it would still hurt when it came, it would also probably be a relief to no longer be waiting.

Maybe that was what was happening with Shane now. He was no longer waiting and so while it hurt to not have him, there was a sense of relief. 

–

Svetlana had noticed he wasn’t texting “Jane” anymore. When she asked about it, he only shrugged and she stared at him just a little too long for him to be comfortable. 

It wasn’t until after they had fucked that night that it occurred to him they hadn’t done so in a while. Ilya had never been a great maths student but he could put two and two together. The pleasant post-coital haze was tinged with the bitter taste of resentment at what he assumed was pity. 

Whatever. He could mask it with a cigarette. 

Svetlana pulled on a Raiders t-shirt while searching for his remote, not needing to be asked to turn the game on. If anything, she was far more invested in it than Ilya himself. The casual way she flopped back onto the bed was reassuring in its familiarity and he grinned, despite himself. Pity fuck or not, it was nice to have someone he loved be comfortable in his space. He made a mental note to add “Shane switching on the game of his own accord and flopping onto the end of the bed” to his growing list of fantasy scenarios. 

When she brought up Hollander, Ilya braced himself, shot her a little grin, and asked if she found him as mediocre as she found Matheson. It was easy to pull on the hater mask; he had been doing it in public for years after all. He could pretend to drag his biggest rival if he had to, even if it did produce a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Instead, Svetlana disagreed and called him “amazing” and “gorgeous”. Ilya tapped his foot nervously, eyes trained carefully on the tv. 

“If you say so.” He replied sullenly.

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew as soon as she turned to him. Even out of the corner of his eye he could see the suspicious look she was giving him.

“What?” He defiantly met her eye, determined to prove he had nothing to hide.

“You know he’s gorgeous and you know he’s good.” 

Fuck, he couldn’t hold her gaze with her looking at him like that. All… disappointed? Why would she be disappointed in him for not jumping to agree with her on this?

“He’s very good.” He ground out reluctantly and was relieved when her attention seemed to turn back to the game.

“I would love to see you on a line with him.” Was she dropping the matter?

“Not sure he can play wing.” Ilya replied, relieved for the subject to be back to hockey at least, even if it was still skirting around the matter of Shane.

“But you can.”

He stared at her in disbelief. He certainly could play wing, had played wing sometimes back in Russia, but he was a star center now! 

“You would have him center me?” He frowned in a parody of anger. “Me?”

Svetlana giggled and the sound brought back memories of the snowball fights they used to have as children, the shriek of delight as he tackled her for sneakily dumping snow down the back of his coat when he wasn’t looking. 

“The people would love it.” She insisted.

“The people are wrong!” He cried, leaping up to tackle her again, limbs tangling as the bed shifted beneath them both. Her laugh echoed, bouncing gleefully off the walls and mingled with his roar of fake indignance. For a moment, all felt right again. They were just friends again, without all the bullshit of their families and their jobs and anyone else.

As the laughter faded, he settled his head in her lap and relaxed as her fingers carded through his hair. He could have happily spent the rest of the night like this, letting her pet him absently as they watched the game.

Then she spoke again. “I wonder how many outfits Rose Landry will bring. She has such good style.”

Ilya was glad his face was turned away from her, but wasn’t foolish enough to think she wouldn’t notice his shoulders tensing at the comment. He decided not to chance saying anything this time, lest he let something incriminating slip again in an effort to sound nonchalant. 

–

He wasn’t even looking for Shane in the hotel this time. He was sitting in the bar, calmly sipping his beer, debating whether he wanted to go for a swim or watch a movie. 

When that white linen jacket appeared, he nearly had to do a double take. It was stupid, such a small difference, the clothes. Not anything flashy or eye-catching, just well cut and flattering on Shane.

No, Hollander. He should call him Hollander in his head for now, so he didn’t slip up. 

He finished his beer to fortify himself. 

 His heart really shouldn’t have done that little flip when Hollander referred to him as his “teammate”. It was giving him hope for something he couldn’t even name. 

He needed to make a joke, something to break the odd tension.

“So what are they out of ginger ale,” He paused briefly before adding, “Captain?” 

Hollander’s lips twitched into a tiny grin at that. One little way in which he had won, being chosen over Ilya for this year’s captain. 

“I’m feeling a bit wild.”

It was Ilya’s turn to hold back a small smile as he wondered what constituted “wild” for Hollander. Probably a single beer he wouldn’t even finish. Maybe staying up until eleven. Who knew. 

“So this should be fun, huh? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.”

“Have you?” Ilya’s eyebrow raised but he refused to rise to the bait. Hollander probably didn’t even mean it as bait.

“Yeah, I have.” His grin said he just registered the accidental innuendo. He tried again to engage Ilya but Ilya shrugged and gave a noncommittal answer, wondering what Hollander would do if he just stood and walked away. What else was he supposed to do when Hollander was sitting that close to him, with that stupid jacket and that stupid smile?

The smile dropped into a small frown at Ilya’s standoffish answers though and he immediately felt guilty. Before he could decide what to do with that, their drinks arrived and they both silent sipped them, not meeting one another’s eye.

Ilya hadn’t even known he was going to speak until the words were already tumbling out of his mouth. “Did you uh... did you bring anyone with you?” 

Hollander gave him a heartbreakingly hopeful look. “Uh, my parents thought about coming but they’re going to Mexico in two weeks and they’ve been to these before so.”

“Ah.” That wasn’t what Ilya meant, and he wanted to believe that Hollander knew it, but studying his open, earnest face right now, he suspected he didn’t. 

“Also I didn’t feel like being managed this weekend.” A thought occurred to him and Hollander’s brow furrowed as he continued. “Did you, uh, bring anybody?”

Ilya wondered if he was thinking of the girl in the club. “Nope.” He let the p pop on his lips before raising the bottle to them. He held eye contact while he drank and let Hollander look away first.

His gaze returned more quickly than expected though and Ilya couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes dropped, in a deliberate once-over. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks. I like to get into the spirit.” Ilya spread his arms slightly to show off the pattern and wondered if he dared read into that look Hollander was giving him.

Then Hollander licked his lips, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re pulling it off.”

Flirting. He was fucking flirting with Ilya. In public. Had he gotten a concussion in his last game and Ilya missed it?

They were interrupted by Carter Vaughn throwing an arm around each of their necks and yelling in their ears. “Cats and dogs! Look at this! Fuckin beauties!”

“Should be a good time.” Hollander chuckled warmly, seeming shockingly unbothered to have been interrupted while flirting with a man at a bar. Maybe it was just that he could smell the alcohol on Vaughn’s breath too and knew he wouldn’t notice what he had walked into. 

“Be careful with this guy.” Vaughn slapped Ilya’s shoulder just a touch too roughly. “Can never trust him.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did Vaughn think Ilya was going to sabotage Hollander’s plays? At an All-Stars game of all places?

“One black coffee, please.” He called only somewhat jokingly. 

Vaughn laughed it off, assuring him it was just a joke and let them be, moving on to his next victim.

Hollander chuckled again, more to himself than anything else. “I feel like we’re gonna get a lot of that this weekend.”

“Should give us a chance to get to know each other. Who knows what we might have in common.”

The comment hung heavy between them, neither of them quite sure what to do with the secret they couldn’t acknowledge even in jest. Unwilling to let the mood darken, Ilya changed the subject. “You’re looking very pretty today. Different maybe? Someone take you shopping?”

When Hollander asked if he could promise not to tell anyone, Ilya’s heart jumped into his throat. Was he engaged? This seemed soon but then sometimes people did that, right? If anyone would, it would probably be Hollander. He probably wanted someone to settle down with and have a long, happy marriage just like his parents had…

“I hired a stylist.”

The relief was such a shock that Ilya couldn’t help the giggle that burst out of him. Since when did he giggle, for fuck’s sake? He quickly covered his mouth but Hollander didn’t seem too offended, offering a bashful chuckle of his own.

“I just wore like, athletic stuff.” He protested when Ilya teased him about his old style of dress and Ilya waved a hand dismissively.

“I know what you wore.” I’ve been taking it off of you for eight years, remember?

Hollander tried to defend his decision by claiming that other men in the league were fashionable and Ilya’s heart strangely soared at that. Did he mean him? Hollander insisted he didn’t, which made Ilya suspect that was exactly what he meant. 

That still didn’t answer the question burning at the back of his mind all along. “So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?” He had hoped to avoid saying her name out loud, as if it might summon her like the devil. 

The lingering smile from their shared laughter dropped as Hollander insisted that wasn’t it. It still wasn’t quite the answer Ilya was looking for, and Hollander seemed unlikely to ever figure it out if he wasn’t direct. 

So direct he would try to be. “So you and her are not...”

Comprehension finally dawned. “We’re not. She’s great, but, uh, we’re just not... compatible? I guess.” 

“Hm.” His response was hardly poetic, Ilya knew but he was busy trying to remember which one was compatible. Совместимый? Or was he mixing it up with сопоставимый? But why would Hollander say that he and Rose weren’t сопоставимый? Did he mean they weren’t similar? Did that mean they weren’t together because they were too different? Because if that was the problem, what did he think of Ilya? Were they too different too?

He realized he was getting too caught up in this train of thought all based on a possible language mix up. He would have to look it up as soon as Hollander wasn’t around. How was it spelled? It sounded like there was a t in there?

Too late he realized he hadn’t said anything in a bit and the pause had extended to the point of being awkward. Hollander seemed slightly disappointed that Ilya didn’t say anything else, but Ilya felt frozen, unsure what else he could say. If he got this wrong, if he assumed what he thought Hollander was trying to tell him, he might say something to make him run away again and that was the last thing he wanted. 

Still Hollander made up some excuse about needing to circulate and Ilya quipped that he had new clothes to show off. 

So he sat at the bar and finished his beer, and tried to control the dangerous hope blooming in his chest.

–

His teammate’s kids all knew him and were quick to spot him at the pool, dragging him into their games and the fun of it drew in other children he didn’t know but was happy to include. 

It was a nice distraction from the mess with Hollander. Or at least it had been until Hollander showed up and made himself comfortable on a lounge chair, watching him. He made up an excuse to play one last game, then climbed out of the pool and shook his hair out like a dog on Hollander, demanding that he pay the kids for the bet Ilya had made with them.

Instead of responding with some sarcastic or annoyed remark back, Shane simply let his gaze run down Ilya’s body like the water slowly dripping down his skin. Even with the dark sunglasses, no one could have mistaken the heat in that look and Ilya felt himself warming under that gaze himself. 

He looked away, needing to remind himself that they were in public surrounded by strangers and strangers’ kids before he dropped to his knees then and there. On the other side of the patio he noticed Scott Hunter, holding a beer and giving him an oddly judgemental look. What the fuck was that about?

The moment kept his attention long enough that Shane had moved to give the kids each a dollar for the vending machine and Ilya took advantage of his distraction to quickly dry off and return to his room. 

–

Ah, he had understood “compatible” after all. Hollander and Rose were not compatible. 

Which meant… well what did it mean really? Even knowing he had the word right didn’t really clarify things as much as he had hoped. He supposed it meant that maybe things were going back to normal. Their normal, that was. They could keep hooking up in secret just like before and that would be fine. Great, even.

That was what he told himself anyway.

All those fantasies he had let himself indulge in were crowding the edges of his mind and he realized he would need to lock those away. Much like he had to return to calling him Hollander in his head lest another “Shane” slip out, he couldn’t risk any of those wishes for “more” surface somehow. 

He could have some of Hollander for real, their stolen hours, secret kisses, but the cost would be imagining that other life where they were happy out loud. It felt unfairly steep a price, but he would pay it a thousand times over for whatever Hollander would give him.

This time he would appreciate what he had, for as long as he could have it.

–

Ilya didn’t mean to laugh at Hollander for coming out. It was just so unexpected, that he would declare himself gay to the man he had been fucking in for the past eight years. Genuinely, what was Ilya supposed to say to that? “I sure hope so”?

As he tried to wrangle his reaction into something more sober, he caught sight of Hollander’s face and realized his mistake. He had taken it literally, which in his defense was not an unreasonable assumption with Hollander. The man usually was very direct and literal in his communication, which Ilya had always quietly appreciated as there were enough barriers for them to cross like language and cultural misunderstandings. 

This was a rare exception however. Hollander wasn’t telling him he was gay to express that he was attracted to men, Ilya realized that now. There was something else he was trying to say here, but what initially eluded him. 

When Hollander asked if he would want to be “something”, Ilya panicked. He couldn’t possibly know about all the little fantasies, couldn’t know about the stupid scenarios like watching fireworks together, or going to a cafe for brunch together, but somehow it felt like maybe he did. Maybe Ilya’s thoughts had actually slipped out into the world and someone had known what he was imagining after all and wasn’t that a terrifying thought. 

Even more terrifying, what if Hollander had just thought the same things?

“We can’t be something.” Ilya said more for his own sake. He needed to hear it out loud, needed to let that reminder soak into his bones. 

Still Hollander pushed and Ilya couldn’t help the flare of temper that rose as he snapped back that it didn’t fucking matter what he wanted. Because it didn’t. 

He thought even as he yelled, that maybe that would be it, maybe this would make Hollander leave again, but instead Hollander averted his eyes momentarily, stung clearly. However his jaw clenched with the kind of determination Ilya had seen him show before on the ice when he pushed away from the boards after a hard check. Injured but not giving up. 

“I don’t think I can keep pretending I don’t like you.”

“You don’t like me.” Ilya insisted, because he had to. It felt dishonest, letting Hollander think he liked him when Ilya was in no position to do anything with that.

But Hollander just pushed back again and Ilya snapped once more, realizing that he really had no concept of the danger posed by being queer and Russian. How nice it must be to be that naive. 

The next thing he knew he was telling Hollander about his father’s dementia and before he could say anything else, his throat closed over. To his horror, a tear slipped down his cheek and he quickly turned away, willing himself to stop. 

Hollander wouldn’t let him hide though, reaching out to turn Ilya’s face back toward him. Ilya’s breath hitched and at that, Hollander climbed into his lap for a kiss that was about comfort, not heat. When he wrapped his arms around Ilya, the dam broke and he couldn’t help the tears that soaked Hollander’s shirt as he clung to him like a life raft.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, with Hollander gently rocking him and holding on to him like he was the only thing keeping Ilya from collapsing into a thousand pieces. Maybe he was. Ilya definitely did feel like he would fall apart if he let go just now. 

When the shudders finally subsided and his breathing against Hollander’s shoulder returned to normal, Ilya pulled away, needing to see his face. At no point had Hollander let go but still, would he now? Had he just been humoring Ilya out of kindness in his moment of need and now reality was going to come crashing back in, heavy and overwhelming for him? Already his arms were loosening and he was unsure whether it was just to allow him to move or because he was drawing back to leave.

If he was then Ilya needed to say something before then, before it was too late. 

“Thank you.” 

Hollander’s frowned in confusion at this. “For what?”

“For…” Ilya trailed off, unsure how to articulate what he meant. He could hardly think of how to express it in Russian and his grasp of English felt even murkier at the moment. 

Hollander seemed to realize what he meant though without him saying it out loud this time and he tightened his arms again. 

“Oh Ilya.” He murmured into hair before letting go to take his face into his hands for another kiss.

Ilya surrendered easily to it, chanting over and over again in his head. 

Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. He never wanted to forget the way it sounded on Hollander’s lips.

“Shane.” He whispered against his mouth and felt the answering smile more than he saw it. 

They melted back onto the bed, slow kisses, slow caresses, slow undressing as if they had all the time in the world to rediscover the bodies they had come to know so well by now. Ilya knew there was a term in English, “making love”, that had never made sense to him. 

He still didn’t like the term. There was nothing to make, the love was already there. This was a declaration. What couldn’t be said with words could be said with touches and kisses, the words whispered and written into their very skin. 

Maybe it was called that because it created more. Certainly every sound Shane made beneath him made Ilya want him more somehow. Maybe they’d had something else all along and this was what made it love. He didn't know, lost track of the thoughts as they dissolved into pure feeling.

Afterward, after the Rock Paper Scissors competition to decide who showered first, and after the dismay then laughter at the realization that one of them had left a distinct sticky handprint on the sheets (which Ilya promised Shane he would clean off as best he could so the hotel staff wouldn’t see), after all of that, Ilya knelt by the mini fridge in the corner.

When he silently offered Shane the can of ginger ale, Shane stared at it for so long without moving that Ilya began to wonder if this was going to be the thing to tip him over the edge into leaving again.

“I got from vending machine down the hall.” He cleared his throat. “But if you do not want, you do not have to drink.”

Then Shane looked up at him with a look so full of adoration that it took his breath away. 

They sat with their drinks in silence for a while, openly watching one another, both waiting for something Ilya wasn’t sure would even happen. 

He thought about telling Shane, but knew that he couldn’t. That was the line he couldn’t cross. Ilya could love him in his own head, but saying it loud was a step too far. Even letting himself think it was more than Ilya had ever allowed himself before and it was terrifying enough as it was.

Shane was going to leave him at some point, both in the sense of returning to his own room tonight and in the sense of ending this thing between them. Maybe he wouldn’t marry some famous actress, but eventually he would find someone he could love in daylight. Even if he was gay, like he said, fucking one’s archrival was a separate thing. Worst case scenario he could come out after he retired and find some handsome, boring man to marry and do boring married people things with. 

Ilya didn’t know what he would do when he retired, he tried not to think about that much. His work visa would end and he would have to figure something else out or return to Russia. Either way, once he or Shane retired, this would be over. 

Which meant that he should make the most of the time they did have. 

He set aside the bottle of water and pulled Shane in for another kiss, slowly deepening it, letting himself explore his mouth while reaching up to run his hands over his shoulders. 

Shane chuckled and pulled back after a moment. “I’m beat, I don’t think I can go another round.”

Ilya pouted. “I can’t hold you without it being for sex?”

Shane’s mouth opened then closed without saying anything. At last he set aside the ginger ale and snuggled close, letting his head rest on Ilya’s chest. “Just a few minutes, then I should head out.” He murmured. 

“Da, just a little longer.” Ilya whispered into his hair.

When at last Shane extracted himself and finished getting dressed, Ilya watched with an aching heart but an odd little pride nonetheless. This was his for now. He got to call Hollander by his first name, and see the way his eyes darkened with pleasure, and feel him go lax in his arms when he was worn out, and it occurred to him that no one else gave him the same feeling of just… rightness. 

There was a pause at the door and an almost questioning look, maybe wondering what he was staring at. It was one last chance to say the thing he kept thinking, but again he could not cross that line.

So instead he said “Good night, Shane.”, emphasizing the sh, just to drive home that he was allowed to say it now and Shane better not forget it.

He got a tiny smile in return. “Good night Ilya.”

Then he was gone. Until next time, at least.

Chapter End Notes

Совместимый = compatible and сопоставимый = comparable. Ilya got it right initially but then second guessed himself